


words in your head (still remain unsaid)

by plathitudes



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Incest, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plathitudes/pseuds/plathitudes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur dreams about it sometimes, even years later, even while sleeping next to his wife, even when miles away from her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	words in your head (still remain unsaid)

Arthur dreams about it sometimes, even years later, even while sleeping next to his wife, surrounded by guards and the thick cold walls of his castle, even when miles away from her. He can never escape the memory of it.

Her face, first: her mocking, cruel mouth, her lambent eyes, her perfect skin, pure and glowing. Her sly fingers, slipping beneath his clothes, running through his hair. He dreams of the unbearable softness, the unbearable heat of her as they moved together on that decadent bed, as winter whirled outside and their castle became encased in ice and snow. Sometimes he feels that he will never be warm again until he feels her against him, and most days he can damn those thoughts and put the memories out of his mind, but there are days when he cannot.

She does not haunt him so during the daylight, though. Night has ever been her time, and the sun banishes her; the sun brings for Guinevere, and Arthur is comforted, for how could he ever want Morgana when there is Guinevere? His wife, beautiful and whole and good, good like Arthur is when he is at his best. She melts away all impurities in him. Her gaze can clear away every shadow in his soul, every knot of shame in his throat. No, in daylight he does not want Morgana.

He makes love to his queen during the day, too, when he can see sunlight gild every curve of her body, when he can see her eyes and the absent smile on her mouth when she moves above or beneath him. (Morgana had never allowed herself to be beneath him, had never accepted that submission, had always overwhelmed him and fought with him even as they fucked, her nails leaving red lines on her skin and her mouth biting. Only when he was soaked in sweat and so close to his release that he would rather have finished himself off than wrestled with her one more time did she soften and allow her body to relax atop his, her lips pliant, her fingers cold and her core warm.) 

He loves her in the mornings, or in the afternoons. Evenings are treacherous, and nights forbidden. Sometimes he feels that Guinevere is not satisfied - sometimes, sitting at the dais or at the high table for a feast, he can see her eyes roving amongst his knights. Sometimes when watching Lancelot duel a stranger he catches a glimpse of colors wrapped around Lancelot’s armoured arm, and they might be Guinevere’s colors, or they might not be.

He tries not to entertain these notions, but they fester within him. Lancelot’s blood drips into the dirt, and he remembers Morgana’s red lips curving in a smile. Guinevere’s hair catches the firelight and reflects its color back, and he has a sudden longing for her hair to be black and silken and straight, not a mass of curls. But these are uncharitable thoughts, and shameful ones, and they are cruel in a way that Arthur know he is not.

He does not think often of the fruits of that night. Guinevere has not borne him children, and very rarely he remembers Morgana’s passionate, fanatical words that night, words of bearing his son and being mother to the next High King, words that Arthur’d discarded as products of lust. But sometimes he wonders, and he casts his mind to the wild places in his kindgom, the twisted forests and cold high mountains, places where he can easily Morgana raising a son. She would like a place like that, one removed from all other humans, so she could be the sole guiding light in the boy’s life. And one day, when the boy had become a man, he would ride out, nursing the words of Morgana in his heart alongside a desire to be king... he can easily imagine a man, long-limbed, with Arthur’s pale hair and Morgana’s dark eyes.

Yet there is no proof that he has a son. He has not seen Morgana in many years, nor heard any news of her. And he does not think of his often. Most days, he is content with Guinevere fearless and lovely beside him, with no guile in her heart. Most days he loves his noble knights riding alongside him, and his flag flying high atop Camelot, snapping in the breeze, impervious to assault from without or within. Most days, he does not think of a boy who may be a man soon, or of the sweet death of his sister’s embrace.

Most days.

**Author's Note:**

> I really know very little about Arthurian mythology so sorry I guess
> 
> Title is from "Heaven" by I Monster.


End file.
